


airplane mode

by manhattan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Kuroo Tetsurou, Boys Kissing, Focus, Hands, M/M, Top Kozume Kenma, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12521556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: The first time Kenma set down his phone and looked at Kuroo, Kuroo looked back and made a stupid joke about millennials.The second time, Kuroo’s blood pooled further and further down, an unstoppable current, and there were no stupid jokes about anything.





	airplane mode

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neutralize](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutralize/gifts).



> crim you are a dear and i hope you like this :^)
> 
> (unbeta'ed as always)

He goes for the joke, because how could he not? Kenma’s hands are only ever electronically empty during classes or volleyball practices, and Kuroo is only a witness to one of those.

After all, Kenma distracts himself with screens at all hours of they day. As they take shortcuts to school, as they stand in line for nikuman, as they sit in the gardens’ shade during recess, as the sun sets beside them on their way home. A defense mechanism, but one that Kuroo has nothing against, considering who Kenma is, and how he is.

But he goes for the joke anyway. Because Kuroo is who he is, too.

“My word—I can’t believe it,” he says, inside a dramatic gasp that rolls dry and long, “you mean, it’s not an implant!? ‘Cause I’ve never seen you take it off your hand!”

Kenma’s stare is flatter than chapati.

Kuroo tries to hold in his amusement. Really, he does, but his snort is an explosive force, and brings with it an unending sled of giggles.

“You’re not as funny as Bokuto has led you to believe,” Kenma says, toneless, and sets his phone on Kuroo’s desk with a smooth gesture.

“You don’t mean that,” Kuroo says, confident and concerned at the same time. “Kenma.”

Kenma doesn’t reply, which is alarming. The tempered glass on his screen reflects a red smear onto the side of his cheek. It fades when Kenma swipes up, then sets his finger against it, and Kuroo is curious until Kenma turns the phone over, face-down against the wood.

Curiosity drops down Kuroo’s throat and stays there, a tight knot of something.

Honey eyes turn to Kuroo; sugarless, sharp. Just a meaningful focus in them, not a flavor, and Kenma’s not reaching for his bag, not reaching for his lettuce-green DS. Breaking every law known to himself, and he doesn’t even blink. He sits down next to Kuroo instead, and the sleeve of his shirt brushes against Kuroo’s forearm.

Huh.

Kenma’s hands are empty. His hands are empty, now lying flat against sloppily-drawn covers, and Kuroo’s neck is so warm, what the hell? The creases of the comforter roll tighter when Kenma shifts, angling his face upwards to see Kuroo better.

Maintaining eye-contact with Kenma is a luxury Kuroo usually enjoys, but today he looks away first, one clammy palm resting against the hot plane of his nape. It doesn’t help as much as he thought it would, but it’s a much needed distraction. He scratches at it, nails like blunt glass, and searches his room for a conversation subject that doesn’t make him think of sweat beading behind knees and strings of spit between open mouths.

“Hey,” Kenma says, straightening. His hands leave the fabric and press against his thighs instead, then turn palm-up.

Kuroo looks at those hands. Those palms, open for his perusal; open for his touch if he manages to gather the courage. Then he looks at Kenma’s phone, still and quiet. Thinks of an airplane taking flight, thinks that Kenma would still have electronic distractions even twenty-thousand feet in the air.

Well. Apparently Kenma doesn’t want to have them in Kuroo’s room, on Kuroo’s bed, on Kuroo’s mind. Kuroo shouldn’t get so wound up from realizing this, but he does, as his vision tunnels around Kenma’s calloused palms, sunny-side up.

The seam of Kuroo’s basketball shorts feels heavier. He doesn’t adjust it to the side, even if he wants to. That would be even more obvious than the look he probably has on his face, and he doesn’t want Kenma to dismiss the mood before it has a chance to burst.

“Hey,” Kenma says again. Lower, this time, both in volume and in pitch, and Kuroo knows a request when he hears one.

In the reddening light of the sunset, Kenma’s lips already glow damp. When did he get around to biting them, before Kuroo could interrupt it, and replace Kenma’s teeth with his own? Unfair.

Kuroo leans in with a frown, wrists twinging as they bend. More, better, wetter. Kenma’s breath is a sweet, warm thing against his tongue when they part. Kuroo’s mouth needs that taste, that wetness; it is dry and chapped and he licks at it, at Kenma’s.

“Are you a dog,” Kenma whispers, turning his face away.

Kuroo goes still at once, alarm ringing a loud bell.

But Kenma’s not making a face. Not yet, at least. So Kuroo grins, resists telling him something dirty, and kisses him again. They fall together as one. Kenma brings his knees up, and Kuroo somehow doesn’t wince, ribs aching. Kenma notices, eyes widening. Brown shifts to honey and Kuroo is so hungry.

“Ah, sorry—”

“‘S fine,” Kuroo hurries to say, and finds himself between Kenma’s open legs. Finds himself in Kenma’s mouth again, and bites, pulls it along when he parts.

“Kuroo,” Kenma warns, eyes drifting away. He sucks in the red shade of his lip, but it’s more protection, not seduction, and Kuroo raises his hands as fast as he can.

“Okay, I got it,” he says, stomach fluttering coolly. “Not one of those days, huh?”

Kenma looks at him again. Kuroo tries to look innocent, even if they both know Kenma hardly ever likes teeth. It’s never stopped Kuroo from trying, because sometimes—well. _Well,_ y’a know? But today is not one of those days.

“No,” Kenma says, and pulls at the end of Kuroo’s shirt. The fabric’s already kind of damp, and Kuroo would be embarrassed about it if his dick wasn’t so damn hard.

“So, what’re y—”

“Come on,” Kenma says, and his fingers scrape up all the way to Kuroo’s neck as the shirt rolls off his shoulders.

 _Ah_ , Kuroo thinks, thighs tensing.

He gathers the clues, one by one: palms up, cellphone discarded, and now the bluntness of filed nails. They’re clean-cut and harmless, today. A wave of heat rushes up Kuroo’s body, because Kenma always bites his nails until the pads of his fingers are sore.

 _Ah,_ Kuroo thinks, and says, inside a quick huff of breath. Damp fabric presses up against his dick; if Kenma doesn’t hurry up, Kuroo’s going to have to wash these by hand again.

Kenma’s shirt makes a soft noise as it falls off his bed.

Sunset filters in, and darkens the ridges of Kenma’s ribs, the angle of his jaw, the light inside his eyes. Kuroo leans in again, but this time Kenma presses one hand against his face. It is quick, unconcerned, because Kenma’s full spectrum of focus is pointing at Kuroo’s shorts. Or maybe inside them? Either way.

“Please,” Kuroo says, mouth puckered between Kenma’s fingers.

Thin lines of warmth, with bony knuckles that Kuroo knows intimately, but wants to be reacquainted with. Not inside of a gym, not outside in line for bread, but _here_ , on his bed, with the elastic of his shorts pressing around his thighs and his back like a curve, like an offering—

“Mm,” Kenma hums. His gaze is cool, assessing, a contrast to the dark color of his cheeks. It’s one of the sexiest things Kuroo has ever seen, or felt, because the path those eyes trail _sears_ across his skin.

Kenma tightens his grip around Kuroo’s mouth. Not enough to hurt, just to be uncomfortable, just to make the inside of Kuroo’s legs twitch. If Kenma keeps it up, Kuroo’s going to fall on top of him, and Kenma probably doesn’t want that for today.

“Get off,” Kenma says, probably realizing this.

The thought of making a joke won’t occur to Kuroo until much later. No. He wants, now. Wants Kenma, and action.

The air is fresh as it replaces the spot where his fingers had been; Kuroo resists the urge to go after Kenma’s hand with his mouth, and instead sits back on the bed and waits.

Kenma’s hands press flat against his chest. Kuroo falls back with practiced ease, even if his hips twitch upwards, searching for a touch that Kenma won’t award just yet. It’s almost enough to see him from below, though; Kuroo pictures Kenma’s face twisting, bruised lips and a flash of teeth, and his hips get away from him again.

“Be still,” Kenma mutters, and clicks his tongue. He pokes Kuroo in the stomach, which doesn’t help, and then swings his legs over the side of the bed.

The sound of the springs squeaking brings a Pavlovian reaction out of Kuroo, almost. Because he knows what follows, after that soft screech, and he is impatient, frenetic even, and if Kenma doesn't get inside him in the next fifteen minutes Kuroo is certain he is going to die.

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, until even that proves too much, and then presses his hands against his face. Teeth dig into his lower lip, until it hurts enough to shake. His breath is warm against his palms as the nightstand's drawer slides open and closed. In the creases of his skin, moisture builds up as the plastic pop of a bottle breaks the silence, and Kuroo's dick twitches twice in a row.

Kenma's hands, when they return, are cool and soft. Kuroo moans from in-between his hands, unbidden by the knowledge that Kenma's mom works late, and then leans over and rests on his elbows. His stomach ripples when he sets his eyes on Kenma's bright fingers, glistening in the crimson light.

And, fuck.

"It's been a while," Kenma says, his dry hand brushing against the elastic of Kuroo's boxers, "so please try your best to be patient."

"That's fair," Kuroo agrees, and his tongue is thick inside his mouth, "but also if you take too long I'm probably gonna explode."

"That's fair," Kenma echoes, and smirks, mouth a blade.

Kuroo arches off the bed as he takes off his shorts, and if his boxers don't go down all the way then that's fine, because Kenma can work around that just fine. And Kuroo likes the pressure, too; likes knowing that there's something constricting him, even if that something isn't Kenma.

He imagines Kenma’s hand, flat and heavy against his face, and well, that’s a mistake.

His dick is weeping, now, and the sound that makes it out of his mouth is deep and needy and fucked. And Kuroo isn't, which is a problem Kenma attempts to rectify by slipping a finger inside.

Time grows to a halt. It's the two of them and the sun, now, and there's no one else in the world.

Kuroo's right foot curls into itself, dragging down the sheets.

"Oh, fuck," he whispers, somehow, "come _on_ , man!"

Kenma doesn’t go on, which is an insult. Kuroo is a big boy after all, he can take it, and he wants to. Faster than the pace Kenma wants to set, at least. He doesn't even care if the lube is cold.

"One more, come on, Kenma—"

Kenma huffs, a muted sound that still manages to get Kuroo to shut up. He breathes, instead, and looks at the ceiling again. Focuses on anything that isn't Kenma and his hands. Like: his foot is going to cramp up soon. Like: the window’s reflection on the wall makes a beautiful shape. Like: Kenma’s second finger and the deepening curl of both.

Kuroo's stomach is warm and wet. Kenma’s fingers are a moving constant. The lotion is heating up, now, either because of the friction or because Kuroo is a thousand degrees. Doesn’t matter. What matters is: how much time has passed? How much time left? Is Kuroo still alive?

"Please tell me you have condoms," Kuroo manages, through pooling saliva. The window’s reflection on the wall is doubled and spinning. "Kenma, please, _please—_ "

Kenma is expressionless as he looks over Kuroo, but the red tint of his face is darker than the sunlight’s. That brings relief; if Kenma is as impatient as Kuroo feels, then he won’t have to beg for much longer.

“Mm-hm,” Kenma says, and his breath is wispy. “Don’t you always carry one around?”

“As much as I usually like that you snipe at me,” Kuroo replies, looking up at him, “now’s really not the time, Kenma.”

That cutting smirk reappears, and so does a flash of heat. Kenma reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and Kuroo heaves a sigh, his body clenching around Kenma’s hand. He’s close, too close, and Kenma must know, because he closes his fingers and withdraws.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Kenma laughs. Short and caustic and low, barely there, but he laughs, and moves, and Kuroo’s head falls back against the mattress. Mouth open and voiceless, tripping on air, and Kenma mirrors him in a smoother way.

Kuroo has seen Kenma breathless before—Kuroo has made Kenma breathless before.

But today is different. Today, Kenma huffs and arches into Kuroo’s chest, one hand dry and one hand slick, both of them tight around Kuroo’s hips. Today, electronic devices are turned off and turned away; today, Kenma is more generous than he usually enjoys being; today, Kuroo kisses Kenma more than once and gets fucked into the mattress.

These thoughts, combined, could be enough to make Kuroo come, if Kenma let him.

On cue, Kenma stills, warm and solid between Kuroo’s thighs, and breathes in through his mouth. Kuroo shifts, restless legs closing around Kenma’s waist, and his voice is a fixed track, now. A chorus of affirmations, pleas, and curses that Kenma likely already knows by heart, considering how he changes his weight and his speed when Kuroo’s voice deepens.

Kuroo comes quick. Kenma’s name claws out in-between his teeth, hard like the curve of his back. The feeling hits like a slap, and leaves a warm imprint all over, but Kuroo still forces himself to watch Kenma curl into himself, even if his elbows itch against the sheets.

Mouth open, eyes closed, and his nails, filed down and blunt instead of bitten to the core, scratch around Kuroo’s thighs. The final gasp, as always, is soft, barely more than a hand brushing against a cool sheet. It still gets a rise out of Kuroo, though, and he moans again, ankles digging into Kenma’s butt.

“Damn,” Kuroo says, and falls back. His skin prickles with cooling sweat as he raises his arms to the ceiling, grinning.

“Mm,” Kenma says, and detaches from the position with a grimace. Reaches into Kuroo’s nightstand for the baby wipes Kuroo always makes fun of. He won’t, this time, just ‘cause he is absolutely fucked out and the mood is just like he likes: slow and sticky and easy.

“ _Damn_ ,” Kuroo says again, and his voice is still raspy. Good stuff. “What got into you?”

Kenma tenses, and then shrugs. He only turns to throw a crumpled wipe at Kuroo, and then proceeds with wiping himself off.

Kuroo wants to lick his moving shoulder blades, but knows better than to. It usually doesn’t end well even when Kenma knows he’s going to, so he really shouldn’t surprise him. He sighs, instead, and gets to cleaning off his stomach.

“Just horny, huh? I get it. But hey, you know,” Kuroo says, grinning ear-to-ear, “if you just wanted to get me to—”

Kenma throws Kuroo’s pillow into his face, and leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his DS.

Kuro laughs into the fabric, and balls it up, puts it under his head. Then rolls closer, and watches Kenma play, until sleep wins over.

* * *

For once, Kenma’s ringtone doesn’t wake him up.


End file.
